Kissogram For Mr Watson
by Prince Preposterous
Summary: Sherlock and Holmes don't know each other, and Sherlock is staking out to observe the plots he thinks Mr. Watson are...plotting..? He figures out the best way to get closer was to disguise himself and get to know John. Suddenly, some feelings change and Sherlock decides to send Watson a telegram. One thing leads to another, and...yeah. Rated M for JohnLock SMUT! :D Dom!Sherlock.


_**A note: I made this for a friend, so...yeah...I've never written smut so...hold out with me. It may be horrible. I don't know. **_

_**I don't own any of the characters (aside from Mr. Booth)**_

_**And yeah. **_

* * *

_3:46:78 pm. Subject has returned home, carrying a bag of unknown products. No apparent mood change. _

The last word was finished with a flourish, stark black ink creating a tail on the fancily-written vowel. The tall brunette closed his leather-bound inspection journal. He wrapped a strap around the book and slid it under his pillow, where it would be kept to himself.

At a first glance, the man would seem to be taking a bit too much interest in his current subject, but he was a detective. And he was thorough. He had even rented out an apartment with a man he had never met in his life so that he could live across from the man, John Watson. He distinctly remembered the conversation he had with his new tenant:

"_So, what made you want to move from Baker Street? I think it's lovely there." The older man said, giving Sherlock a firm, yet frail, handshake to finalize their deal on the renting of his children's abandoned apartment. _

"_Well, I have recently come into work at a shop that is too far out of my way to live on Baker Street still." Sherlock gave a small smile to the graying tenant, and grabbed his small case of luggage to take up the oak stairs with him. The tenant, Frederick Booth, had offered to take Sherlock shopping to restock his clothing supply, for it seemed that he had a very unfortunate amount of clothing with him if he planned on staying through his career._

_Sherlock finished his journey up the staircase, to find the only room on the top floor. He opened the old creaking door and inhaled the smell of mildew and wood stain. There was a reason that the room was so cheap, but money really meant nothing to the detective. He would take whatever he needed to finish his case. Sherlock walked to the window, pulling apart the curtains and clouding himself in dust and sunlight. He blinked a few times to relieve his eyes of the disturbance and looked to see exactly the view he would have. Of course, he pondered on which room would give him the best view of Watson's window. _

_Sherlock was pleased to see that he could see very clearly into Watson's family room, and there was a window parallel to the first that showed Sherlock a full view of Watson's bedroom. Would there be awkward moments between the two men? Say when John is undressing without knowledge of Sherlock watching his every move? No. None of it would be awkward. Sherlock's mindset is that the human body is the human body and it should not be something to be awkward about._

Sherlock snapped his attention from his thoughts about the man he was supposed to be watching and went back to watching him. Time flew when all you did was watch a man.

_8:12:48 pm. Nothing has changed. Watson has made Chicken Alfredo for himself. I have had no sustenance, but I am not leaving._

Sherlock, although writing the opposite in his journal, got up from his seat by the window and put his book where it belonged. He yawned noisily; he had been at this for quite some time now. He walked to his temporary bureau and pulled out the clothing he had selected for his sleepwear. A pair of underwear. Sherlock didn't like to sleep in much clothing, for he didn't want them to tangle around his legs or torso. He hastily unbuttoned his pants and slid them down his legs, kicking them onto the bed with his foot. He would fold them after. The shirt came next; button after button, until the dyed purple cotton shirt was tossed onto the bed with the pants. Not thinking, which was odd for him, he took off his current undergarments, shivering slightly at the sudden cold that brushed his private area.

Realizing that the clothes on the bed would be wrinkled if he left them that way any longer, he had to fold them. Completely nude, he bent to the bed to grab his clothing from the warm bed. He attempted to juggle the pants, shirt, and boxer briefs, but a sacrifice was needed. He dropped his shirt—his favorite purple shirt—to the dusty floor. Groaning to himself, Sherlock bent down to retrieve it, bottom to the door.

"Mr. Holmes, would you like a cup of—"

Sherlock shot up, fretting a bit about the tenant occupying his doorway. Almost immediately, Mr. Booth's eyes travelled down Sherlock's built body to his private area, which he covered with his clothing. "A cup of _what,_ Mr. Booth?" Sherlock asked in a calm tone.

"A cup of _tea_, Mr. Holmes, but I can clearly see you're very busy. I'll leave you by yourself for now." Mr. Booth turned to leave.

"Now, now, Mr. Booth. I would love a cup of tea. Very hot, please." Sherlock smiled his trademark smile and reached out to shake the man's hand, not interested in his obvious nakedness. The tenant sighed, and shook Sherlock's hand, shaking his head as he turned and left. Sherlock shrugged, embarrassed at his own almost-embarrassment, and went back to folding his clothes.

When all of his dressings were folded and put in the bag designated for dirty laundry, he hung the bag on the bedpost and stepped into his sleeping undergarments. He adjusted himself to maximum comfort and went back to sitting in his observance chair, bringing his binoculars to his bright grey eyes.

* * *

Three days passed and nothing had happened yet. Sherlock was honestly getting tired, and that's saying something. He had not shaved, so he was rather scraggly, and that was mistake since the time he was spending on Watson could have been spent on taking care of himself. For the past two nights, he had slept around three hours, which was around normal, but for some reason it seemed like it was taking a bigger toll on his mind than usual. He was having weird thoughts. One three-hour night, he had an unmentionable dream concerning one John Watson.

Shaking the thoughts from his mind (for the time being), Sherlock adjusted the crotch of his pants one more time before he finished buttoning a coat that was being used for his travel outside to pick up the necessary items for a stakeout. He ran a hand through his thick hair to give it some life and opened the door, locking it behind him. The last time he left in unlocked, Mr. Booth snuck in and cleaned it. His observation journal was moved, and it's simple to say that Sherlock was not happy.

Looping his scarf around his neck once more, Sherlock left the apartment building to get a closer look at John Watson. Legitimately. It had been much too long of a process, and in the time wasted, Sherlock was have progressively stranger dreams; all about John Watson. In multiple sexual situations.

Sherlock sighed as he walked across the street, turning his large cardstock decoration in his hand to protect it from the oncoming wind. He upturned his collar and went to the door of the parallel buildings, hitting the buzzer on the front of the door.

"_Hello?_" said the voice that Sherlock would get to know very well soon.

"Yes, hello. Mr. Watson, I have a package for you. Buzz me in?" Sherlock almost whispered into the receiver. Little did Watson know that the package Sherlock had in mind was his own.

There was a long pause on the other end of the entrance system, and Sherlock heard a faint click as the door was unlocked for him. He smiled to himself and walked into the building, adjusting his card again so that he could fit it through the door.

"221B." Sherlock mumbled quietly, looking at the golden numbers on the hard doors he passed. The numbers all seemed wrong. He had one in mind, and that was it.

Coming across the room sent a wave of excitement over Sherlock. He twisted his face until the tightness was gone from his cheeks. He knocked three times on the door. Quickly realizing what he was wearing, he propped up his giant card in front of the door and did what was needed. He stripped. In the middle of a hallway.

Once his clothing was on the hallway floor, he grabbed his jacket again and put it on, covering his body to his knees. When the familiar body opened the door, Sherlock put on a straight face, hiding his clothing behind the card.

"May I help you?" Watson mumbled, cocking an eyebrow.

"Kissogram for John Watson?"

John tilted his head, "Kissogram? Is that an actual thing?"

Sherlock gave a blank stare, then composed himself, "Yes it's real. Why else would I be here?" He smiled slyly at John, who just slowly nodded.

"Alright. I guess I have to take it. What is that?" John asked, referring to the card Sherlock was holding. He pulled a wallet out of his pocket and fingered through his money to give Sherlock a tip. Not wanting to seem suspicious, Sherlock took the money and put in his coat pocket. He pushed the card forward for John to read.

"With great admiration comes great love. I would love more than anything to kiss you and feel you beneath me. Love, Sherlock Holmes."

At the last utterance of the end of the card, Sherlock's head shot up, a shocked look painted across his chiseled features. "It doesn't have a name on it." he smiled without certainty.

"I know," John smiled, "I know you've been watching me, Sherlock. I'm not moronic. For god's sake, you moved out a week ago for a 'case'. Plus, Mr. Booth delivers me vegetables, and he told me all about his new 'roommate'." He looked down at Sherlock's obviously exposed body, and motioned for him to come inside.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and entered his actual domain. "This place has gone to hell since I've been gone." He mumbled, picking up a plate in the kitchen, still covered with food. "And how long has that been here?"

"About ten minutes. I just made it for dinner." John laughed, not taking his eyes off of the fold of Sherlock's jacket that he could see into. The only visible body part was Sherlock's abdomen, but it was enough to cause John's member to twitch. "Now, Sherlock. About that Kissogram." He didn't wait for Sherlock to answer before wrapping his arms around the taller man's shoulders, giving him a glance before leaning into his soft lips. The two connected their affections, and Sherlock couldn't help but feel eager. This entire thing was really a role playing thing for him, for he had seen something about role playing on John's internet history.

Feeling John's tongue prod against his lower lip, he slightly parted his lips to allow access to his mouth. Their tongues wrestled, and Sherlock almost jumped when he felt a rush of cold air against his torso. John had unbuttoned his jacket. When did he get so subtle? Using a free hand, Sherlock slipped his coat onto the floor, something unlike him, and rubbed his exposed crotch against John's. This earned a quiet moan from the blonde, which perked Sherlock's interest. He separated their lips, beckoning to John with his eyes to join him on the couch.

"On the couch, Sherlock? Isn't that going to be messy?"

Sherlock bit his lower lip, before walking over to John and undid the buckle on his belt, slipping it out from the waistband of his jeans and throwing it on the floor behind him. Next was the button on John's bottoms, which he undid hastily, pulling down the zipper in an almost simultaneous action. John's pants dropped to his ankles, and he quickly removed his own shirt, leaving him as exposed as Sherlock. He put his hands on Sherlock's hips and kissed him again, this time much more passionately. Their tongues danced, and before John knew it, Sherlock had him on the couch, standing above him like a god. Sherlock gazed up from his focus on John's now-throbbing member, to see the man with his eyes closed in anticipation. He decided to oblige and got on his knees in between John's legs, running his hands up the smooth skin of his lover's thighs. John shivered at Sherlock's touched, but bucked his hips forward. "Easy now, love." Sherlock whispered, taking John's cock in his hand. He palmed the length for a while before deciding it fit enough to engulf. He started by lightly kissing the head , and moving his way down John's shaft, emitting little moans from the receiver. He grabbed onto a handful of Sherlock's signature curls, guiding his head to the tip once more. Sherlock licked his lips before taking the top of John's manhood into his mouth, slowly sliding his mouth down to the base. He repeated this action for quite some time. John must have been enjoying this, since he hardly said anything. And Sherlock would be damned if John ever shut up during sex.

"God, Sherlock. I think I'm close."

Not wanting it to end yet, Sherlock removed his mouth from John's length, ending the fellatio with another light kiss on the head. He stood up once more, tapping John's thigh as a way to tell him to reposition himself. John laid on his back, legs spread apart in waiting. Much to his lover's dismay, Sherlock had vacated the premises. John sighed, knowing this was normal of him. He flopped his head back onto a pillow and closed his eyes.

Unexpectedly, John felt a cold substance touch the ring of muscle that took part in their next act, and he jumped, snapping his eyes open. There was Sherlock, holding a bottle of lubrication in one hand, and his engorged length in the other. He had rolled on a prophylactic and coated his member with clear lube, preparing himself and John for entry. Sherlock was never one to scissor John, since he liked to get to the point. John smiled, missing his man's touch.

Sherlock positioned his length, and slowly started to push the entirety in. He stopped when he got past the tip and looked to John, "Tell me if you want me to stop, dear." He said sweetly, counteracting the words with a quick thrust into John. It was completely unexpected, so the pain was much more than what it would be if he paced himself.

"Sherlock, what the hell is your problem!" John screeched, barely recovering from the sudden entrance.

"I had a—uh—muscle spasm." Sherlock smiled, continuing his thrusting movements.

John couldn't complain, especially since he didn't want to, and let his eyes roll back, fully enjoying the feelings that washed over him. It had been so long for the two of them. He shut down his mind for the time being, and listened intently to the sounds of skin on skin, Sherlock's panting, and his own light moans. He didn't tend to make a lot of loud noises.

Feeling kind of left out, John grabbed his own member and began to stroke himself, not wanting to leave "Lil' John" out. This action was taken from him, too, as Sherlock had swatted John's hand away and taken over the position of now both sexual acts.

"Fuck, Sherlock. I think I may be close again."

Sherlock cussed under his heavy breathing, "I'm not. Why do you always last such a little amount of time?" He grumbled, slowing his thrusts to save time. When he felt a fire in his abdomen, he knew he must have been close to.

It had been so long, they had to take care of themselves, and as they both knew, constant self-pleasure can cause premature ejaculation.

Sherlock pulled from John, leaving his hole slightly burning from the friction, and slipped the condom off, holding it in one hand as he stroked himself with the other. He moved to straddle John's hips and kept pumping himself. He almost made a rather loud moan as he came, spilling his seed over John's waiting chest. Watching this made John reach his climax as well, and he joined Sherlock's substance with his own.

The pair of them were a sight: sweaty and panting, lying on top of one another, strategically avoiding the pool of…object…on John's bare chest.

"Well…?" John said through slow breaths.

"Well what?" Sherlock retorted.

"When do you plan on moving out next?"


End file.
